


*sneezes erotically*

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Sneezing, Sneezing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i know i say “sneezes erotically” a lot</p><p>but what if someone sneezing while something was inside their genital</p>
            </blockquote>





	*sneezes erotically*

**Author's Note:**

> and then i wrote this instead of actually working on things that need worked on

"Oh my god  _stop sneezing_ ,” John groans under you, exasperated beyond measure. His hands are digging into your hips so hard his blunt nails are denting your sharkskin.

He says it like you can fucking help it, like you could stop it if you tried. You’re not even sick—you just have allergies. Not the snot-dripping-down-your-face-from-your-sniffnode kind, just the pollen-from-this-strange-planet-is-tickling-your-mucus-membranes kind. Your body doesn’t even seem to care that your boyrailsprit is buried to the hilt in you, the crawling prickle over your skin more from arousal than irritation, the itch under your skin from sex-heat between the two of you.

You sneeze again, back bowing and bulge twitching, and John moans, helpless.

Because every time you sneeze, your gut tightens. It’s just what happens when your atmosphere aspirators are trying to clear out your cartilaginous nub of any foreign particulates. Unfortunately, there are other things taking up substantial space in that area of your body. Like the whiplash slick arc of your bulge as it smears eagerly against the trail of hair leading down from John’s (what is it? something about buttons—oh, that’s right) navel, the swollen pulse of your auxiliary seedflaps against the curls at his groin. The satisfying, almost overwhelming stretch of the entrance of your waste chute around the girth of John’s shaft. (Not bulge, there’s a different word—dick. His dick. Cock. Crankshaft. Dipstick. Pump-action jizz rifle.)

(You’re going to kill Strider. Later.)

God, he’s huge. Delightfully so, forcing you to focus on the ways your body surrounds his, moving gingerly as you get used to the size. You plant your hands on his (thorax?) chest, those square cuts of muscle so unlike the lean ropes of your species. He looks up at you, eyes honest and wondrous, and his hands circle your wrists, travel up your forearms, until they curl around your upper arms. You roll your hips, a small enough shift, and John reacts like it was nothing short of seismic, thighs tensing under your ass and a pulse running through every part of him.

Your eyes start to water. God, not again. You open your eyes, tilt your head back, and try to stare directly into the light fixture on the ceiling fan, but all it does is make your eyes water a little. “Don’t you dare,” John tells you.

You don’t. Your nose does. The silly spit SCHHHH noise echoes, and everything below your thoracic cavity tightens.

Around John.

Who growls, pulses, and drives up into you, burying himself in you further than you thought possible.

Which gives you just the right amount of friction to a nerve center hot-wired to your genebladder whose only biological function is to tell it “yes please start making slurry and pour it straight into those shame globes.”

You shift your weight onto your hands—John can take it, he’s a big boy, and he’s not exactly a twig, more like a masculine specimen at the epitome of his entire species—and rock up, letting him fall away. He sucks in too much air at once, swallows around a hiccup, then lets you take charge, hands falling from your shoulders back down to frame your hips. You fall. Rise. Fall again, languorous and slow. Because you don’t want to rush towards your inevitable doom faster than you have to. Rise, this time clenching deliberately.

John doesn’t wait for you to fall before pulling you back down, greedy fingers digging into your bones. The blunt head of his cock digs straight into that yes button, hot-wiring a current under your skin—which means there’s a tickle in your nose. You sneeze—a small one, not very dramatic, in fact trying really hard not to this time—and John looks at you like he could level your hive with his eyes. “God, you feel  _amazing_  when you—” he starts, then colors a little under his dark skin.

Sounds like your sneezing is kinda turning him on. And that he’s even a little embarrassed at how much it’s affecting him. You can work with that.

You ride him. Like you mean it. Slam-slap of your bodies together when you crash around him, schlick-slip when you tease and pull away. John works with you, angling his hips so he can direct his stupid not-even-slightly-prehensile cock the way he wants it in you, and when he does that it hits right up against your joy buzzer, which makes you want to sneeze again. And you do, exaggerating it. Deliberately adding to the clench around him this time, clinging to him long after your autonomous bodily reaction is done.

He growls up at you. In that strange human way, nowhere near close to the deep rumble of a respectful kismessitude but still primal. Animalistic. His hands slide up to frame your flanks, and his grin is nothing if not wicked, coupled with those bright eyes that mean he has a wonderful, terrible idea.

John flips the two of you over, drives into you so hard you feel electrocuted, and a cascade of sneezing starts all over again. He fucks himself into you like he could eradicate your sneezing if only he slammed hard enough, but it just makes it worsebetter, little sneezes interspersed between his thrusts as he pushes your legs up so your heels are over his shoulders. Fuck, this way he’s hitting it every time, and you can’t help it, you’re sneezing compulsively, you can’t stop, you don’t want to stop when it feels this good, involuntarily tightening even more around him and making it hard for him to move so each drag-draw of his cock in you creates this amazing friction  _burn_.

Your shame globes are so full they’re starting to get hard. John knows. He reaches between the two of you, bypasses your bulge still happily slurping along his abs, and jams the heel of his palm right up against them, fingertips dawdling near the entrance to your seedflaps—close enough to threaten—god, you almost hope he doesn’t, you don’t think you’d be able to stand feeling even more full than this, too much of a stretch—“Come for me?” he says—doesn’t demand, just asks, like he’s not quite sure if you’re ready.

"Oh, god," you tell him, looping your hands loose behind his head and tangling your fingers in his hair as you pull him down for a kiss.

He sneaks a fingertip in and you’re done for, pressure against your shame globes forcing your slurry through your parts, hint of fill against your shallow seedflaps enough to make you spill from there, just enough, perfect, god, you choke on your praises as one last spark catches under your skin and gets you to let out an apocalyptic sneeze, so violent a cascade of sparks runs down your body from your horns to the filed-down claws on your feet.

You could laugh at the absurdity of it—you got so tight you actually forced him to pull out of you—and then very suddenly you’re not laughing when his cock instead nestles in the hollow of your belly, slips against the sloppy mess your bulge has made between your bodies. Your bulge has a mind of its own and wraps around him immediately, which just makes John move against you more insistently. The difference in sensation has your skin prickling again—you sneeze, the reaction sneaking up before you even knew it was coming, and your bulge constricts further around him, squeezing hard.

John cries out, harsh and breathless, as he loses it. The pulse of him in your bulge’s insistent grip gets you there too, two, again, twice, both, god you adore him so much you think your pusher might be trying to flop out of your chest and into his.

Both of you are a complete mess. You’re slick all down your thighs, slurry icing over your stomach. John’s spunk is splattered up one side of your thorax—you reach up and yes, that’s a bit of it at your jaw. A good one, then. He pulls you into his arms, hugging you close, and flops onto his side as he takes you with him. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to care that you’re a complete mess, smattering messy kisses all along your face.

They tickle. You sneeze at him. He laughs, but not at you, and you shove him genially.


End file.
